Survival of the Fittest
by RedPandaLove111
Summary: (Adapted from Franky G Fan) Thoughts, feelings, and slow descent into insanity point of view of the hated Xavier Chavez as he goes through the nerve gas house. T for language. Alternate events included: Daniel's unintended death...and Xavier's survival.


**AN: Adapted from Franky G Fan, whom gave me permission to rewrite and continue this story!**

The rain was relentless; water streamed and thundered down from thick, pregnant blackish clouds. Unfortunately, he was forced to stand out in the horrid weather and take the impact of the striking raindrops, but he honestly didn't care. Not one bit. He lifted his weary face to the sky and let the raindrops pummel his cheeks, his lips, his nose, his eyelashes, and allowed it to soak and drench his skin and clothes. It didn't matter that he was wearing nothing but the skimpy clothing provided once an inmate was released from jail; the freedom felt so good and he was simply reveling in it. The freedom he'd longed for ever since he'd been slammed into the slammer (no pun intended). A sudden surge of fury coursed through his veins; it was that damned scrawny officer, Eric Matthews (or something like that) who'd ruined him, busted him, and locked him away for the past few years of his life.

His hands clenched and unclenched, his knuckles itching to slam and punch something. He smiled bitterly; clearly prison hadn't eased his bloodlust for violence. Still- how he'd like to get his hands on that scrawny S.O.B.

He gave a shake of his head- it didn't matter now. Not anymore. Or, at least, not at the moment. He was free, and he was utterly exhausted. He was going to have to head inside anyhow- the power of the rain was increasing steadily to the point where each drop almost felt like a small, stinging pebble of hail (which it was) driving against his revealed flesh. He shoved his hands deep inside his pockets, hunched his shoulders, narrowed his eyes against the rain, and shuffled on down the sidewalk, heading to his crappy apartment complex- which, ironically enough, was only a few blocks away from the jail.

He arrived and shouldered his way into the lobby, puddles of water forming around his feet and dampening the torn-up carpet. The scrawny middle-aged man behind the circular desk eyed the puddle in disdain, but quickly lowered his gaze and hid his face behind a magazine. He held back a smirk as he breezed by and began to climb the stairs; the old man was afraid of him. That was good.

He stalked down the hall, narrowly bumping into a scrawny young man (merely a kid to him- he himself was nearing 40 years of age, as much as he hated to admit it) with a Marlboro cigarette dangling from his plump lips. The kid had a backpack slung over his shoulder and was staring at him uncertainly from bangs of tousled hair.

"Got another one?"

The kid blinked, surprised, and shuffled in his backpack as he mumbled, "Sure." He whipped out a packet of cigarettes, slid one out with professional ease, lit it, and handed it to the beefier, older man standing before him.

Sticking it between his lips and inhaling, silently delighting in the comfort of the smoke that invaded his lungs, he moved on down the hall, not even bothering to thank the young man and forgetting about him a second later. Though this cigarette was satisfying, it would never be as much so as his drugs- but his supply had been taken away. He twitched in anger again but shoved it aside- he was too tired for that crap.

Upon approaching the last door on the hall, he didn't even bother to withdraw his key from his pocket- he simply slammed his foot into it and it swung open with a relenting creak. He muttered a profanity at it. He was going to have to get it fixed, he knew, but he didn't have the money for it.

His apartment was alien to him after spending months locked in a dark, sweaty cell block. It was freakishly clean- the bed was made properly, the trash cans were emptied out, the toilet rolls replaced and the paper towels stocked; everything was in annoyingly perfect order. He was a slob, after all, and he preferred to live in comfort.

Ah, whatever. He was tired. He plucked the cigarette from his lips after one long, last final drag and rubbed the butt out on the drawer that held the miniature TV, leaving one long stretch of a blackish gray smear.

He tossed the cigarette in the general direction of the trash can, not caring if he made it or not, and stripped off his shirt, balling it up and tossing it aside. Sliding into this bed, this bed with covers and comforters and an actual mattress, was comparable to heaven. He stretched for one brief moment before he turned onto his side, tucked a forearm underneath a pillow, and drifted off into a dark, uneasy sort of sleep.

He was awoken rather abruptly, seemingly seconds after he'd slipped off into sleep. He sat up slowly, running one hand over his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. What had made him waken so abruptly?

And then he heard it. The sound of a door creaking slowly open, the sound of footsteps sliding over the carpeted floor, incredibly quiet and muffled, but audible to his ears. His back straightened. Slowly he leaned over, opened the drawer in his nightstand, and rummaged about, pulling back a few seconds later with his old switchblade in hand.

He slid from his bed and brandished it, cautiously stalking towards the direction of the bathroom- the only other place in his apartment that even had a door. "Who's there?" He barked, and, then, as an afterthought, hissed a profanity-filled threat. He was irritated at being awoken- especially by some stranger daring to break into /his/ apartment in the middle of the night.

His hand curled even tighter around the switchblade handle- he was, after all, prone to short bursts of fiery temper that would result in harm to anyone that anger was aimed at- and this intruder wasn't excluded.

But little did he know, this stealthy intruder had an advantage over him- the figure was small, lithe, and, as a result, incredibly nimble. Such figure leapt from the shadows, wrapping tiny arms around his neck and jabbing something incredibly sharp (a syringe, probably) in his jugular vein before releasing him and dancing away.

He whirled, slashing out with his knife, but his world was fading before his eyes- and without another attempt at lashing out at the intruder, his knees buckled and he crashed to the floor, spread-eagled, unconscious.


End file.
